"He continued to stir the pot with some sort of long-handled metal spoon. I watched the pot bubble and hiss and the flames roar, as if an unseen bellows blew on it. I realized he was chanting something and I thought, Why can't he hear me if I can hear him?"

She fell silent, her hands in fists now against his shoulders. He continued to hold her tightly, running his hands up and down her back.

"There is a clear wall between us, I thought as I watched him, but it made no sense to me and so I stuck out my hand to touch it. There was nothing there. I stepped to the side of the fire, and stuck my hand out again." She shuddered against him. "I touched his shoulder. He jumped in surprise. Believe me, so did I. He stopped stirring, stopped his chanting, and looked straight at me, and I knew he could see me now. Nicholas, he smiled at me."

"He what?"

"He smiled at me, and said in this deep voice, 'You are mine. Isn't it odd how the light always brings clarity?' Then he looked back over his shoulder as if hearing something or someone coming that alarmed him. Then he turned back to me and he put his fingertips to his lips. He stared at me. I saw something strange and scared in his eyes, but it was gone quickly. His eyes were so intense, Nicholas, so powerful, I felt he was looking into my soul. He whispered, 'Be careful, look to the book, and you will be here, soon now, soon now-'"

She looked up at him now, and he saw her eyes were clearing, becoming more focused. "What happened then?"

"Suddenly it was as if I was hurtled into a huge well of white, like a blizzard, but there was no wind, no movement of any kind, no cold, nothing save blinding white. Then you were holding me and talking to me and I slowly came back into myself. Was it the white that frightened him? Or was he the one who stopped it when you commanded it? Nicholas, what was in the pot? What did he mean that I had to be careful?"

"For once a being in a dream says something that makes sense. This being believes" you're in danger, he's warning you."

"But who was he?"

"We will find out, don't worry."

"And the book, I'm to look to the book. That has got to mean Sarimund's the Rules of the Pale or Sarimund's short book that belonged to your grandfather. All right, I can do that. I can read both books again, we can study them more closely."

"Yes, we will even look at the book seams, see if there is anything hidden within the covers. Another helpful clue. We're getting there, Rosalind."

"And what did he mean when he said I would be there soon? In the Pale?"

He didn't like it, but he said, "Yes, very likely. As to the light bringing clarity, that requires more thought. We will figure it all out." He pointed to the knife. "When I came in, you were holding this knife. Blood was dripping off the tip, only the drops were white like everything else. Do you know where it came from?"

She looked horrified. "No, no, I've never seen it before. It wasn't in my dream. I was holding it and it was dripping white drops of blood?" She sounded terrified now and he couldn't blame her. "But wait, Nicholas, you were wrong, there's no blood on it, white or red."

He picked up the knife, looked down, and felt his heart stop. She was right-there was no blood, no sign there had ever been any blood. The blade was glittering silver. He immediately released her and fell to his knees to study the carpet. No blood.

Nicholas slowly rose, felt his heart tripping. He hated that there was something going on here he couldn't begin to understand, hated not understanding, not knowing what it was. He felt helpless, impotent. What if she'd been with him? Would she have dreamed the same dream? Would there have been the same thunder, the terrifying white that filled everything? Would he have seen the knife appear in her hand? He said, "Wait, I saw blood drip on your bare foot." She raised her foot. There was nothing at all. She raised her other foot. Nothing.

"Well," he said, trying to center himself, trying to think clearly, calmly. "You called it a dream. It would seem you were plunged into the middle of a vision."

Rosalind laughed, a shaky laugh, and said, her voice a bit stronger now, "I don't know where the knife came from. I've never seen it before in my life."

"It's kept in a glass case down in the library."

"Nicholas?"

He laid the knife back on the night table, gathered her against him again. He kissed her ear. She was at last warming. He began stroking her again through the soft muslin nightgown.

"The man who was stirring the pot," she said against his shoulder, "I told you I'd never seen him before."

He kissed her temple. And waited. And his heart pounded slow deep strokes.

"He smiled at me. He knew me. He said, 'You are mine.'"

He waited.

She pulled back in his arms and looked into his face. "It's all so clear to me now. I know who the man was in my dream. It was Sarimund."

There was more confusion in her voice than fear now. He tried to keep his voice light. "Since I met you, Rosalind, I must say my life has been anything but boring. So Sarimund is in the middle of this rich mix of chaos, no surprise there."

"First I dreamed of Rennat the Titled Wizard of the East and now Sarimund. What does it mean, dammit?"

He smiled at her curse, touched his fingertip to her chin. "We'll figure it all out."

"All of the whiteness, the dagger with the white blood, Sarimund speaking to me-you're right, it wasn't a dream, Nicholas, it was a vision."

"Yes," he said, "I think* it was." Having a vision sounded all well and good, but he had no answers that he could get his brain around, and it nearly killed him.

"And that knife. Is it someone's message that there will be violence? Was that an additional warning for me to be careful?"

"I plan to keep you safe, sweetheart, I swear that to you. As for the rest of it-" He paused, stared down at her. "But not now, not now." He leaned down and kissed her mouth.

He felt her jerk of surprise, felt her initial resistance, then she sank into him.

She whispered against his mouth, "Sarimund was a vision, but you're not. You're thy husband, Nicholas, and you're naked."

He'd forgotten, truth be told. Her hands stroked up and down his back now, and she moved even closer, if that were possible. Her palms stroked down his flanks, his legs, then smoothed forward toward his belly. He wanted to laugh. Here he was ready to take his wife down on the bed and there was a knife not a foot away from them that had, five minutes before, been dripping white blood. Whose? Sarimund's?

He pulled back and closed his eyes when her hands pressed against him between their bodies, and her fingers touched him. He jerked away.

"Did I hurt you?"

He laughed. "Oh, no, my brain is dead, but nothing else. I beg you, Rosalind, don't move your hands, well, I take that back, yes, move your hands but not away from me. Touch me, Rosalind. This is about us now, only us, and I want you very badly."

When Nicholas lay on his back a short while later, a sleeping Rosalind tucked against his side, he stared up at the shadowed ceiling, listening to the light rainfall against the windows.

He suddenly realized he didn't like the way the room smelled. It wasn't musty, no, it smelled coppery. Then he realized what it was. The scent he smelled was blood.

He lifted his wife in his arms and carried her back to the earl's bedchamber, kicked the door to the countess's room closed with his foot.

She jerked awake when he laid her onto the cold sheets.

"Shush," he whispered between kisses, "it's all right now. Come close and I'll warm you."

She murmured against his neck as she settled once again against him, "Sarimund said I'd be with him soon, soon I'd be coming to him."